The last flower in spring
by Macarons and Muffins
Summary: The death of a loved one and the harsh torments he endured have made Jasper Hale retreat into his shell, feeling distant and cut off from those around him. When his family moves to Forks to try and leave the past behind, he catches the eye of Alice Cullen, a girl desperate to break his walls and discover who he really is inside. A/U, A/H
1. Chapter 1

**This is an idea that was originally quite different but developed over time in my mind. I will admit that I used to be a hardcore twilight fan a few years ago, but while I never hated it the way some people do, I lost my obsession for it and no longer _loved_ it the way I once did. However, after reading it again I found that I began to love the less central characters like Jasper and Alice more, even preferring them over Bella, Edward and Jacob. I love the potential the characters have, and love exploring them in an alternate universe setting. I do have plans for this fic, provided that people like it, and I therefore hope that it is decent and not too terrible.**

**I do not own Twilight; the rights to the book Twilight belong to Stephanie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended, this fic was written merely for recreational/entertainment purposes only.**

* * *

I was never like the other children but then, I never wanted to be. Their action-centred, violent worlds filled with cheap plastic guns and six-pack bearing idols never appealed to me, and as a result I often found myself the brunt of teasing. As a child, it had always been infantile taunts; calling me a coward or a girl. Growing older, I was subject to far less appropriate accusations, though I developed a thick skin, and they rolled off me like rain on a pane of glass; leaving a slight smudge, but never actually penetrating the surface, failing to absorb. My mother seemed to take my torments far worse than I did, staring down at me mournfully. She assured me it was because I was far more "intelligent" and "gifted" than they were- that they wouldn't understand, _couldn't_ understand my way of thinking. I always thanked her, ever-grateful for the reassurance, but I did not see the point; I was different, and my difference from the others needed no justification. I could handle their mocking taunts, little more than childish words that failed to do any damage. However, one day they took it too far. One day, it escalated from childish taunts into pain. They tore at me, physically and mentally, and sitting there, surrounded by rubbish and trash cans, was when everything changed.

When _I_ changed.

My grandmother always used to tell me that the last flower alive in spring is the most beautiful, because it "_never falls with the others, but instead_ _stands long enough to see winter approach_". She would take my hand, uttering the phrase which, though technically irrelevant, always made me feel more comfortable in my individuality. I don't know where it came from, whether it was some long-lost proverb or just a phrase she dreamed up, but it was always profound, and I liked the way her eyes would light up when she said it. They were a mystical colour, her eyes; the pale blue of an early morning sky. Even in the end, when every part of her body had begun to waste away, there was a sense of bizarre comfort in seeing her eyes remain as bright and full of hope as they always had, never clouding over.

She once told me I have her eyes. I used to enjoy looking in the mirror and staring at them, almost picturing my Grandmother's carefree smile staring out of the pupils. Now, I avoid looking at my eyes- anything to prevent reminding me of what happened.

I avoid a lot of things these days.

She was one of the few people I felt I could truly connect with. My father was constantly working and my twin sister Rosalie, though I loved her greatly, was always so _different_ to me; more outgoing, confident and blunt, never letting anything stand in her way. I did connect with my Mother, but she was often out the house as well; before Grandmother Whitlock passed away, she was always a social person (similar to Rosalie) attending parties, club functions and luncheons with her large group of friends (friends, might I add, who drifted away when she needed them the most.) So all through my childhood and adolescence I spent long periods of time with my Grandmother, listening to her stories and looking at her photos in her cosy living room, or helping her in the garden, a task she would always reward me with some of her homemade lemonade and sometimes a plate of oatmeal cookies. She was the best Grandmother I could have asked for, and I always felt as though she was the only person in my family who truly understood me.

"_Don't let anyone else tell you how to live your life, Jasper_," she would smile kindly at me, patting me on the hand with her smaller, almost skeletal one. She never let anyone tell her how to run her life, living it the way she wanted to, and was happy right until th day that her heart finally gave up. She was even smiling on that day, while others cried around her; she told me that it was Okay, that she was going to heaven and we would all see her again. I knew that should have consoled me and it did, a _little_, but I still selfishly wanted her to stay down here with me, forever. She wasn't just my Grandmother; she was the only person who truly understood me. People who constantly tell me to "get over it" or that "things happen" don't understand. When you lose your rock, the thing that keeps you up and standing strong, you fall and it is near impossible to get back up. It did not help that just a week later, I was subject to extreme humiliation and agony from a group of bullies who took it one step too far. Without even my Grandmother to console me it was the last straw, the breaking point for me.

I developed a thick skin a while ago, and yet each day a new trial forces it to thicken and me to retreat further into my shell. I do not lash out, like so many other adolescent boys in my position would. I do not let my emotions show; I keep my face as smooth as silk, not letting it wrinkle or display any feeling. I keep my eyes- damn it, _her_ eyes- down and try to blend into the background. When I'm with my family I am more alert, but it is a façade; the jokes, the laughs and the smiles all seem far too strained and forced, like I am a shadow of the person I once was. It is difficult; while I remain composed, my insides are constantly faced with turmoil. Our home in Texas, once so comforting and familiar, holds a well of bitter memories; each day, a new page is overturned, and some long-forgotten trinket or mark will open a floodgate. The idea of moving is harsh, and yet in a way also relieving, lifting the burden of painful memories. I do not want to forget her ever, but I no longer want to live in a place where every nook and cranny is filled with the emptiness left behind now that she has gone. Moving is neccessary, anyway; my Father can scarcely afford our house any more, and my mother desires a "fresh start". The idea is typical yet promising; a fresh start, a new place to begin again. Rosalie complained about our destination constantly, complained about the size and lack of culture. However, I found the notion of a small, botanical town appealing; there is a sense of purity and almost cleanliness in such a place.

I barely spoke as I packed, and now I sit in our car, a formerly impressive and currently battered SUV, still silent. It has been a long time since I chatted or spoke idly, keeping a long conversation going. Usually, I just fall silent, short of anything to say. Rosalie, my talkative sister, does enough talking for the both of us.

It is almost two days- a day and eleven hours, to be precise- from our home in San Antonio to Forks, when traveling by car; Money is too tight for the cost of a flight, along with the additional issues of shipping our belongings over, so instead we settled for driving the long way into Washington, a trailer carrying whatever luggage could not fit in our car, stopping for rests at cheap motels and truck stops. I can sense Rosalie's brooding displeasure from the seat beside me, and though I do not share her opinion, I can understand why she is unhappy; leaving our spacious home in a metropolitan city and moving to a microscopic town that nobody has heard of must be hard for someone like her to accept, especially since she has left all of her so-called friends behind. Every few seconds, she checks her phone hopefully, but either reception is down or none of them have bothered to contact her. I did not have any friends by the end, so I did not leave anyone behind. Leaving the school was easy, and I feel as though I can bury what I dub as _the trash can incident_ behind forever... I shake my head. Leaving it behind means I will NOT think of it.

The car trip falls silent soon, Rosalie running out of things to talk about, my father too busy focusing on the road ahead and my mother as docile as she always had been. I have withdrawn, staring out the window and watching the scenery blend from one view to another. I had brought my pencils with me, intending to fill some of the time with sketching, but instead I found myself unable to. Usually, drawing is something that brings me out of my shell a little, however now I find it hard to drum up the inspiration to put pencil to paper. Maybe the nature that is beginning to sprout around us will help inspire me; trees are, after all, musical; mysterious and almost wise.

"It's so rainy!" Rosalie complains as we hear the first light drops on the roof of our car. It always rains in Forks, or so I am told; not heavy showers but a constant drizzle.

"At least you won't have to worry about sunburn," I tease her, though it is halfhearted, as all my teasing is these days. Rosalie rolls her eyes- a darker blue than mine and shaped differently, reflecting my father's.

"My hair will go frizzy," she pouts, and I laugh wryly at this. Sometimes, I wish that I could return to the way I once was- carefree, cheerful; free to joke and smile. But the pain keeps stabbing me, and the empty hole where she once was just seems to get bigger each day. It has been little over a month; I need time to heal and fill the void...

My thoughts are cut off when our car slowly jerks to a stop. The houses here are spread farther apart than in our former suburban area, separated by huge yards of trees and ferns instead of the flat little gardens I was accustomed to. The house is not tiny, but far smaller than our old home; a little white Tudor, half-hidden by the greenery. I have only seen pictures of it before, but it is far more charming in the flesh, and I am already thinking of how I can paint it, or sketch it.

"Welcome home," Mama sighs, and though Rosalie looks slightly disdainful, I can't help the sense of relief that washes over me. This is the polar opposite of our sunny, modern home in Texas, and I like it; now, at least when I look around, I won't be hit with painful memories of my Grandmother.

* * *

_**Alice**_

* * *

The whole town has been buzzing for days since we heard that a new family was moving in. In a smaller area, few people would know or care, but in Forks something like that causes as much drama and gossip as a celebrity visit or murder would in a larger city. I am amused when I hear, and almost pity the poor people; they will be subject to wide eyes and whispering for weeks, until the novelty wears off. What is more exciting is the knowledge that there are twins in the family, and both my age. I would love to meet more teenagers- our school has such a small student body, and it is hard to socialise. Bella and Angela are really the only girls I get along with; the rest of them are stuck up, selfish girls who want nothing more out of life than to wear the tightest shirts they can and shove their cleavage in the faces of any cute boy they can find- boys who are more often than not my brothers. _Ugh_. I hope that the girl- from what I have heard, the twins are a girl and a boy- is not like those...

Sundays are usually a lazy day for me, the afternoons gloomy with the knowledge that in a few hours school will start again, yet today I am bouncing around, filled with energy. I can't help it; even something small like a new family in town gets me excited. I can not wait to meet them in school tomorrow, and spend more time than necessary trying to envision them. They're coming from Texas; are they going to have a heavy accent? I know it's wrong, but I can't help imagining a family of cowboys riding into town, and giggle slightly at the thought. _That_ would certainly cause raised eyebrows from the more uptight citizens of Forks.

I am bored, though; Emmett and Edward are playing video games on the TV, something that grows extremely dull after a few hours, and for some reason none of my books or magazines appeal to me right now. It's too late in the day to go on a good shopping trip (retail therapy is underrated) and so I loll on my bed, feeling restless. Eventually I wander into the kitchen and find Mom preparing dinner, her caramel hair pulled back from her face and a tasteful apron shielding her clothes.

"What are you making, Mom?" I question her automatically, and she looks up with a smile.

"Linguine," she smiles at me, gesturing to the pasta machine on the bench. I unthinkingly do a little squeal; Mom's homemade pasta is some of the best food in the world, in my humble opinion. As she begins feeding dough into the pasta maker, I prop myself up onto the kitchen counter, trying to refrain from asking about the new Family- the Hales, I think they are called- since I know I have been badgering her about it all week. I can't help it; I've always been curious, and I _love_ meeting new people.

"Mom, do you think they've arrived yet?" I blurt out, and she laughs slightly.

"I don't know, dear," she turns to face me, looking amused. "You're very interested in the Hales, aren't you?"

I nod, a little sheepishly.

"I just think it's cool that after all this time, there are finally going to be some new people to talk to," I tell her eagerly. "And they're my age, too! I wonder if the girl will hang out with us..."

"Maybe the boy will be your type," Mom teases, and I laugh; as nice as it would be, that seems pretty unlikely.

After sitting on the kitchen bench and watching her cook for a little while, Mom presses a handful of bills into my hand and asks me to pick up some milk, since Emmett- typically- has already made his way through a whole pint to accompany a king size package of oreos; I have to smile at my eldest brother's appetite. When she tells me the milk is for some of her home made lemon scones I all but leap off the counter, eager to assist her, since her lemon scones are possibly my favourite dessert of all time. She laughs at my enthusiasm, and promises me I can have the end piece, though I barely hear this since I am almost already in my car. Usually I would drive to the store in Port Angeles, which has far nicer food and a nicer atmosphere, but since it is getting late and I just can't be bothered, I opt for Forks' tiny supermarket. It's not the nicest place, full of people who always seem to get irritable when shopping for some reason and constantly running out of things, but if I'm only going for milk it doesn't really matter.

I can't help snorting when I pull my car into the parking lot and see that they've begun to decorate the store for Easter. It's only early March, but Forks was always overhyped about holidays; the tiny thriftway is already displaying huge piles of chocolate eggs and looks almost like an easter egg, wrapped in brightly coloured streamers and large cartoon posters of rabbits.

_Ugh. Tacky._

I hate tacky decorations. Tacky is possibly my nemesis; the opposite of stylish, cheap and crude. I shoot a large yellow cut out of an egg in the window a disdainful look as I enter the store. I like Easter, I really do, but what is the point of draping the stores in cheap paper decor when it is almost 2months away? It's not even as big a celebration as Christmas...

The dairy aisle is near the back of the store, and as I turn the corner, I freeze in my tracks. Living in a small town means that most people in Forks are familiar; I recognise almost every person, even if it is just because I have seen them shopping in here before. And I know the face, if not the name, of every teenager in this town, due to our school's almost microscopic student population.

So, my heart begins racing in excitement when I see a tall, blonde stranger, just a few feet away from me, studying the small selection of frozen dinners in the freezer. He must be the new boy, the Hale kid- Jake, or Josh? I can't quite remember his name, and I can't help watching him curiously. I am suddenly very glad that I came out to get milk today; all day I was looking forward to meeting the Hales, and can't believe my luck in seeing one here. Automatically, I study the boy. He is attractive, but not in a huge-muscled-tanned guy way, the way that most girls prefer. He is very, very tall, and slender, with hair the colour of honey falling into his eyes. Oh! His eyes! When he turns slightly I can see them clearly, despite my distance; a vivid pale blue, like chips of ice...

_Get it together, Alice._

I am embarrassed by my sudden enthusiasm for the new boy. He is attractive, yes, but it would be fickle of me to develop a crush after glimpsing him for just a few seconds. I don't even know his name, and have only heard rumours and gossip around him. Still, a small part of my brain reminds me that he will be enrolling in school soon, and will be in my grade... I can't help smiling slightly at that. Yes, I may have only seen him for a few seconds and No, I remind myself firmly, I am NOT developing a crush on him, but it is still an exciting thought that I might get to know this boy. I hope he's in at least two of my classes. I firmly believe that you can assess someone's personality by their clothes, and his, a simple black button-down and grey slacks are tasteful enough, far nicer than the cheap T-Shirts covered in slogans sported by most boys in Forks or the skin tight tops designed to show off every muscle that arrogant guys wear.

The boy starts to turn, and only then do I realise, with a sudden jolt of panic, that I am still staring at him. Unthinkingly, I do the first thing that any self-respecting girl caught staring at an attractive boy would do; I duck down behind the display of hot cross buns on sale, face reddening and hoping that he did not see me. Pathetic, I know, especially since I would usually introduce myself. I am usually a very forward person, and I can not believe that I am reduced to hiding behind stacks of buns and "reduced price" signs. Straightening up, I fiddle with my hair for a moment (while I love long hair, it is starting to grow old and I am considering getting it cut into a pixie soon) before flouncing over to the boy, just as he's shutting the freezer door. I hope he is not annoyed, since some people can find my forwardness rude or just silly.

"Hi!" I trill, face breaking into a larger grin than I'd planned. He seems even taller up close, and there is a faint summery aroma surrounding him.

"I'm Alice Cullen, and you must be..." Damn! What was his name again? I rack my brains for a moment, before the lightbulb goes off. "Jasper! Jasper Hale, right? Welcome to Forks!"

The boy turns, face a mask of curiosity, and when his pale blue gaze meets mine, I feel a tremor down my spine.

_Damn_. I'm certainly glad that I chose to introduce myself.

* * *

_**Jasper**_

* * *

The thrift way at Forks is tiny, and a small part of me misses our larger, more equipped supermarkets back in Texas. There is hardly anything in here; I can see bare shelves where popular products have run out. And yet, it is almost refreshing; another symbol of just how _small_ this town is, different to anywhere I've even been before. I seek out the freezer, an easy feat due to the size of the store, and look for decent Frozen Dinners. Mama used to cook, but since Grandmother Whitlock's passing she hasn't found the will. All her traditional recipes were handed down to her, and they hold too many memories. Dad hates cooking though he is actually quite good, and Rosalie is the opposite; she enjoys it, but all her attempts turn out burnt or claggy. (I smile slightly as I peruse the shelves, remembering my twin's dreadful attempt to produce a soufflé.) I have not learnt to cook, as far as Mama knows, so therefore we look to frozen foods, pre-prepared meals and fast food as our sustenance. Secretly, Grandmother taught me to cook in her comfortable, familiar kitchen, but somehow I feel those memories of us standing at the stove together are private and therefore do not divulge my culinary knowledge. Now, as I load the shopping cart with whatever decent options there are, I am alerted by a high and very feminine voice, startling me.

"Hi!" A girl says cheerily, and I look away to hide my slight frown; I don't want strangers approaching me. "I'm Alice Cullen, and you must be... Jasper!" she seems to search for my name, and the relief at guessing it correctly is evident in her voice. "Jasper Hale, right? Welcome to Forks!"

Resigned, I turn to face her and engage in conversation, though I cannot help being shocked when I see her. She is _tiny_, shockingly so, most likely under five feet. Her eyes are huge in her small, delicately pointed face , and they stare up at me curiously, a deep green that reminds me of a cat. Her skin is pale- even for Forks, where a majority of people are pale due to lack of sun- and in a stark contrast, her hair is very dark, almost black, framing her face in slightly haphazard waves. Pretty, but not in any conventional way. She beams up at me, but there is a hint of self-consciousness behind her smile.

This is slightly uncomfortable for me. While there was a time where I would have been more than eager to talk to someone I did not know, nowadays I would prefer to be left to myself. Still, I do not want to seem impolite, so I force myself to speak to her.

"Hey, darlin'," I flash her a smile, though it is halfhearted; it has been a long time since I truly smiled. "Nice to meet you."

The girl seems to notice that my smile is feigned; her own, genuine grin flickers for a moment, and a look of concern dashes across her eyes, before her wide beam returns.

"Nice to meet you too," she tells me. "Are you going to be starting school tomorrow?"

Even though I do not want to engage in a conversation I cannot help but nod, and her smile seems to grow bigger, something I thought was impossible. Her friendliness is, though a little abrupt and uncomfortable, refreshing; most of the Forks populace have done nothing but stare at us like some strange alien creatures. I know we are new in Town, but bulging eyes and blatant whispering makes me feel almost isolated, not to mention it's highly annoying. I realise that this girl is the first person in Forks to actually speak to my face, instead of just throwing wild gossip around behind my back.

"I can't wait!" the girl- sorry, _Alice_\- tells me happily. Most teenage girls I have met before would be saying this sarcastically, but she seems sincere. "Have you met anyone else yet?"

I shake my head, and she seems delighted by the fact.

"You _have_ to sit with us at lunch," she practically orders me, and I am taken aback by how direct she is. Considering I have known her for a maximum of 50 seconds, this seems quite sudden of her to offer this. I was half-expecting to sit alone, picking at my food, the way I had before in Texas. It has been a long time since I properly had friends, and while I appreciate the girl's offer, It goes against the grain for me to accept something like that.

Still, she looks very determined, and almost amusingly so. She places a hand on my arm, eyes widening.

"Please?" she repeats. "I'm sure my friends would _love_ to meet you too."

More friends. More people to talk to, get to know, people who might get to know me and try and help me feel better. Or, far worse, people who might leave me the moment they realise that I have problems. I am still very undecided about this, yet somehow it seems incredibly rude not to oblige Alice.**  
**

"Why not?" I tell her after a long deliberation. After all, she _seems_ like a sweet girl, someone who-unlike the rest of Forks- actually chose to speak to my face, instead of just staring at me before whispering gossip behind my back. (Evidently, a new person in a small town is like a shiny new toy, to be _ooh_-ed and _aah_-ed at and talked about until the novelty wears off) She seems far more polite than the others, and less judgemental. I just hope that if I do end up sitting at her table with her and her friends for lunch, none of them probe me to speak too much. These past months I have become more of a solitary person and talking is no longer my forte, especially not to strangers. People at school are also hard to trust, and again the memory of the "trash can incident" flashes across my mind.

_Aw, look who it is... Did your precious Granny die? Metal lids... Rubbish everywhere... Their hands tearing at my skin... _

I shake off the memory, telling myself that I will not think of that. I am sure the people in Forks are not like that (surely there are few teenagers out there as malicious as James, Laurent and Felix were) and besides, I have already told Alice that I will sit with her and her friends. To suddenly go back on it seems incredibly rude.

To my surprise, she actually claps her hands at my affirmation, bringing me out of my thoughts.

"Great!" she tells me, before pausing and looking down at her watch, something I recognise as Guess (only because Rosalie leaves ridiculous amounts of jewellery catalogues around).

"I'd better get going," she looks up, face still lit up and sunny. "See you tomorrow at school!"

I nod my head, lips curled into a false half-smile. Alice picks her near-empty basket up and walks over to the cashier, though her walk is so light it's almost like dancing. I can't help staring after her for a few moments. Although the fact that I have promised to sit with her and her friends at school, when I would much rather prefer to be left to myself, makes me a little unnerved, I cannot help thinking that it was nice for someone to actually take the initiative to approach me and treat me like a person.

* * *

_**Alice**_

* * *

I frown slightly as I leave the Thriftway, turning over my conversation with Jasper in my head. He was kind, and very polite, yet I saw something missing; the smile he wore was a little too wide, and not reaching his eyes. He seemed to hesitate before he spoke, his words too forced. I cannot help feeling intrigued by that. Clearly, there is something underneath the surface, something more to Jasper Hale.

I wonder if I will ever know what it is.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for all your encouraging reviews! I wanted to get this chapter up earlier, but I was quite busy with work, and was also discouraged to write this because I had almost finished it and then it didn't save for some stupid reason, meaning that a lot of work on this chapter was lost and I lost the will to write it for a while.**

**I don't own the rights to Twilight. **

* * *

_**Jasper**_

* * *

Despite stocking up on instant meals, we go to the Forks Diner for dinner, in what I suppose is meant to be a celebration of our first night in Forks, though none of our moods are particularly celebratory. It has an atmosphere that some would deem "cosy" or "rustic", though I just stare blankly at the wooden furniture and ferns, before sighing slightly. The wood fire, welcoming despite the fact that it is _supposed_ to be spring, fills the room with an all too familiar smoky aroma, and for a moment I am transported back to Grandmother's house in the winter, making me sigh slightly.

An all-too-cheerful waitress appears, her wildly curly hair scraped back into a ponytail and a plastic grin on her face.

"Hi, I'm Jessica, and I'll be your server tonight- OH MY GOD!" she breaks off in an unprofessional screech. "Are YOU the Hales?"

Ah, Great. My family- minus my father, who is too busy on his phone to notice- exchange looks. I shift uncomfortably under the stare of this girl, along with a majority of the diner who, hearing her cry, have turned to evaluate us. I think of Alice, the girl I met earlier today, and my mouth twists into a frown. It is clear that her genuine friendliness is not shared by the rest of Forks.

"Yes, we are," Mama tells her gloomily. "May we have some menus, please?"

Jessica begins to talk excitedly as she hands out menus, still staring at all of us, as though committing our faces to memory so she can describe us in graphic detail to her friends later.

"-So, like, my friend Lauren told me that a new family was coming, and I was like NO WAY, but she was like "Uh-huh" and everyone was talking about you and I was so excited to see you because now-"

She continues to babble for a solid two minutes until another waitress appears, telling her to clean up another table. She shoots us a cheery grin and leaves, undoubtedly to spread gossip about us in the kitchen.

"Nice girl," My father mutters idly, eyes still staring unceasingly at his phone. Rosalie shoots him an incredulous look but I just shrug; I know my father was not paying attention. He rarely does. Rather than lamenting over his innattentive nature, I look down at the menu. It is all standard diner fare, nothing special, and most likely bland or greasy. Whatever the case, it is probably preferable to eating something out of the microwave in a plastic tray.

Thankfully, it is not Jessica who returns to take our orders but a much more docile and quiet waitress. I unenthusiastically ask for a burger and fries, though I have little intention to eat much. Rosalie orders a salad with no dressing, making me frown slightly; she used to order large meals and eat them with relish. Perhaps she has just lost her appetite; that would be understandable, considering the events of the past month or so. As we wait for food, our family engages in weak small talk, and the awkwardness of it is just another sad reminder of how we have all drifted apart. My father does not look up from his phone the entire time.

Finally, the scents of food waft over. Jessica, to my dismay, returns with our food, setting the dishes down in front of us. It looks decent enough for diner food, and we begin to eat, Jessica constantly asking us if we need anything and buzzing around like an annoying fly until she is finally called away again. The people in the diner have, thankfully, stopped staring at us, though I can still hear our surname mentioned in snatches of conversation around the room.

"Do you two have everything you need for school tomorrow?" Our mother asks us, voice quiet and sullen. I nod, taking a bite of my burger, which I suppose is pretty good.

"I hope that girl isn't in any of my classes," Rosalie mutters, eyeing Jessica, who is now flirting with a disinterested looking boy at another table. I have to agree with my sister; from the way she babbled on about us to the way she is now flirting, she does NOT seem like pleasant company. I take a bite of a fry, and Rosalie's eyes swivel down to my food, a flicker of envy crossing her face.

"Do you want some?" I offer her dully, but she shakes her head briskly.

"No thanks," she tells me quickly, turning back to picking at her salad. I recall that she always used to steal bites of my food, back when the two of us were closer, before I retreated. Once again, I dismiss this as a lack of appetite. We eat in silence for a few minutes, before my father's phone begins to blare loudly. I cringe as every head in the diner snaps towards us, and we are met with several wide-eyed stares once again. My father pushes away his plate of barely-touched spaghetti and instantly leaps outside to answer it. I see a ripple cross my mother's face at this, and sigh; though I have been distant from my family for a while, I cam still see just how much my father's indifference hurts my mother.

We continue eating silently, and my father doesn't return for the rest of the evening; we can see him through the window, talking ferociously down his expensive phone. Jessica returns to take our plates- including my father's untouched meal- away, and offers us dessert, which we decline.

"Your father has the money," Mama tells us softly, frowning as she picks up the bill. "He was supposed to be paying tonight... I didn't bring my purse..."

We sit and wait until finally, more than fifteen minutes later, father stomps back inside.

"Stupid realtors," he mutters angrily under his breath. "Always trying to rip you off... That house in Texas is worth double the amount they want to sell it for..."

He sits down stiffly in the booth, before looking down with a scowl.

"Where's my food?" he demands, and my mother sighs again- she has been doing that a lot lately.

"The waitress took it. " She tells him dully, and he lets out a loud huff of irritation.

"Nice to see you waited for me," he mutters sarcastically, and at that moment I fight back the urge to explode at him. I see Mama open her mouth to say something, but closes it and looks away. My father just continues to scowl, snatching up the bill. I catch Rosalie's eye, and both of us frown; we hate it when our father's rude to Mama like that.

I hate a lot of things about my father.

* * *

**_Alice_**

* * *

Dinner is, as usual, delicious; Mom's homemade food is really a treat. Emmett scarfs down about three portions worth, while the rest of us laugh slightly at his huge appetite.

"Did I tell you who I met at the store?" I ask my brothers excitedly, and I see Mom smile slightly at this; I already told her about my encounter with Jasper three times. I know it's silly, but I can't help it; nothing interesting usually happens in Forks, so something like a new family is quite a major event.

"Who?" Emmett asks, the words barely intelligible through a mouthful of food. Mom gives him a stern look, but I can see the amusement in her eyes.

"No talking with your mouth full, Emmett," she tells him, and Emmett rolls his eyes playfully, swallowing.

"Who, allicat?"

"I saw..." I pause for dramatic effect. "Jasper Hale!"

This does not have the desired effect with Emmett, who frowns.

"Who?" he repeats blankly, and I roll my eyes.

"The Hales are the new family who've moved in," Edward, the middle child, informs Emmett for me. "You know, the ones everyone have been talking about?"

Emmett shakes his head slowly, and I smirk slightly. It shouldn't surprise me that Emmett doesn't know about the Hales; while everyone has been gossiping about them, he was probably too busy up on Planet Emmett to actually acknowledge anything, and so it went in one ear and out the other.

"So, what's this Jasper like?" Emmett ladles himself another huge scoop of pasta from the dishes in the middle of the table. "Is he cool?"

"He's..." I pause, trying to think of a way to describe Jasper; how withdrawn and deep he seemed underneath the friendly façade. A good word to use would be enigmatic, but I seriously doubt Emmett knows what that means.

"...Different." I almost cringe at the stupid word that comes out my mouth. Emmett raises a thick eyebrow.

"Different as in three heads weird, or psycho crazy?" he asks, and I shake my head.

"Neither. Just... Different." I twirl a strip of pasta around my fork, popping it into my mouth and making a noise of appretiation; I really wish I could cook as well as Mom does. From the look on Emmett's face, part curious and part confused, it is clear that he still doesn't understand what I mean. Just when I think the subject will drop, he opens his mouth again.

"Good different or Bad-"

"Does it matter?" Edward rolls his eyes at Emmett, cutting himself a slice of bread. I shoot Edward a grateful look; Emmett's questions are starting to get annoying now.

"Emmett, I spoke to him for like _two minutes_," I tell him firmly. "It's not like I actually know him,or anything. I just said Hi, and then..." I pause, frowning slightly. "I asked him to sit with Bella, Ang and I at lunch."

Retrospectively, that seems pretty forward, but I don't let myself regret it; I love getting to know new people. It was just a harmless, friendly offer, right? Apparently, Emmett doesn't seem to think so; he lets out a low cat call.

"Oooo," he smirks obnoxiously, waggling his eyebrows at me. "Alli has a _lunch date_ with the new guy!"

Despite myself, I blush just slightly, before tossing my napkin at Emmett.

"It is NOT a lunch date!" I squeal; I should have known Emmett would jump at any excuse to mock me. "I was just trying to be nice!"

"Suuuuuure you were, Alice," he teases, and I aim a kick at my immature brother under the table. Dad shakes his head at Emmett.

"Leave your sister alone," he reprimands Emmett gently, though the look in his blue eyes is mild; Dad rarely gets annoyed with Emmett's antics. Still, I stick my tongue out childishly at Emmett, and he sticks his out back, opening his mouth wide enough to show some of the flecks of food inside.

"I swear, both of you act like three year olds sometimes..." Edward mutters into his dinner. Emmett gives him a look of false horror.

"Are you suggesting that I'm immature?" he lets out a falsetto gasp, and Edward gives him a dry look.

"I'm not suggesting it, Emmett," he tells Emmetty dully. "I'm saying it outright."

Emmett just chuckles at Edward's sarcasm, as he always does, and reaches out to ruffle Edward's hair, though I duck out the way before he can tousle mine.

"Touch my hair, and you die," I tell him fiercely. My hair, like Edwards, is halfway between curly and wavy, and is almost always in a state of disarray; it takes me ages to get it to lie flat, and I do NOT want Emmett ruining it. Emmett withdraws his hand, giving me a devious look.

"What, want to keep your hair in good condition for your lunch date?" he begins again, and I groan; I wish h would just leave it now.

"Emmett!" Mom warms him from the other end of the table. "I think it's nice that Alice wants to include the new boy. Now leave her alone..."

Emmett does not seem convinced, and shoots me a smirk, before breaking the silence by snatching a piece of ciabatta bread off Edward's plate.

"Hey!" Edward objects, as Emmett pops the bread into his mouth with a chuckle. While Edward protests that it was the last piece and Emmett had already eaten five pieces ("You snooze, you lose, Eddie!" Emmett laughs, spraying Edward with bread crumbs), I am glad for the diversion; at least Emmett has stopped teasing me about Jasper.

Not that there is anything to tease about, of course. I was merely being friendly, inviting Jasper to sit with us. He is someone I have only spoken to for a few minutes, and I most certainly do not have a crush on him.

No matter what stupid Emmett thinks.

* * *

_**Jasper**_

* * *

Our house is still crammed full of boxes, so much that it is difficult to manoevre around the large cardboard stacks and into a room. I am still unused to my new bedroom, which is surprisingly larger than my old room in Texas despite how small our house is overall. There is an aged, classic quality to this house with its high ceilings and polished floorboards, and despite the inevitable foreign feeling this house bestows, I feel as though once I am used to it I will become quite fond of it.

We spend the evening unpacking- though we did sell or give away a large percentage of our belongings back in Texas, there still seems to be a never ending amount to find a place for. Though some necessities, such as the refrigerator, have already been set up, we still have to find a place for all f the smaller items. We have a lot of new (new to us, though some is second hand) furniture, having sold some of our larger pieces for more suitable sized items, which is just as well; our black leather couch and modern table would have looked ridiculously out of place in this house. We did keep, to my extreme relief, everything- from the small coffee table to the willow patterned ornaments- that Grandma Whitlock left us. Our father had wanted to throw them away or sell them but Mama, in what was possibly the only time she ever stood up to him, refused. None of us speak to each other as we dig through the oppressive mounds of boxes, aside from the inevitable slight exchange of words. Just a few years ago, and the house would have been alive with banter- Rosalie and I would have been playfully arguing over who would get the best seat in the lounge, and Dad might have even teased Mama.

_When did it all change?..._

Rosalie and I, during a break from unpacking, make a forced attempt at conversation. I make myself hot chocolate, a comfort food to keep me stimulated during the tedious chores ahead, and offer her some but she refuses. I tell her about going to the store and meeting Alice; it is not the most interesting thing, but it is the only news I have. Rosalie, like me, appreciates the fact that one person in Forks was actually friendy and did not gawk at us or ridiculously treat us like celebrities. We get back to work spend hours setting up our new house, until finally Mama breaks the silence by pointing to the Grandfather clock, one of the heirlooms she inherited from Grandma Whitlock.

"It's almost midnight," she tells us softly, turning to face Dad who is rifling madly through a box of supplies for the study. She places a hand on his arm gently, trying to get his attention.

"Jasper and Rose need to go to bed-" she begins, but he whirls around furiously.

"Where the hell is the bloody fax?" he barks angrily. Mama's lips curls into a frown and she withdraws slightly. My eyes dart to Rosalie, and I can see her giving Dad the same wary look; we both know what is going to happen.

"It's late," Mama admonishes him, but I can see that her voice is slipping, growing less confident. "You can wait until morning-"

"For God's sake, Tanya!" he snarls, drawing himself to his full height. He is over six foot, a stark contrast too her dainty frame, and he towers over her, intimidating, his eyes more black than brown in the dark light.

"I'm still waiting for the paperwork I was supposed to get two days ago!" he yells, leaning down over her. "It can NOT wait until tomorrow! You _know_ how hard everything has been for me..."

I grit my teeth. I want to yell at him, to tell him how selfish he is being considering she is still grieving her mother, to demand he leave her alone. And I should, I know I should, but my mouth clamps itself shut. This is how I deal with tough situations, I realise ruefully; I shut down, withdraw, instead of fighting. I see Mama cower slightly, pointing at a stack of boxes near the door.

"I think the fax might be in there," she says timidly, and I am kicking myself for being such a coward. Rosalie gives Dad a seething glare behind his back, but she does not say anything either. We both stand passively, watching as- one again- Mama crumbles. Yet another reason why this family I'd broken- why _I_ am broken.

I slowly make my way up to my new room, feeling heavy with guilt. One day, I tell myself firmly, I am going to put my own childish fears aside and stand up against him.

* * *

Night is weighing down heavily on us, but I cannot sleep. I shove the covers off the bed, the old floorboards creaking slightly as I step down onto them.

The bedrooms in this house have bay windows that look out over the tangle of ferns and greenery below, and while Rosalie covered her bay window in scatter cushions and curtains, I left mine bare, with just a pile of sketchbooks and chest of pencils tossed onto the seat. I pick up a book, slide out a pencil, and begin to sketch the view out the window.

It is dark, missing the suburban streetlights and headlights I am used to; instead, the world around me is lit only with the smallest slice of moonlight, and so my sketch is dark and shadowed. I find putting pencil to paper therapeutic, a way to express emotions and feelings without speaking or lashing out. When I am finished with my crude sketch of the view from my window, I find myself leafing through the older drawings that fill my book. When I find one of my Grandmother, looking so frail and wasted, her blue eyes shut, I quickly shut the sketchbook and toss it down, throat constricting slightly. I had forgotten that I sketched that; it was on the day that she passed, and I hate that sketch of her; seeing the broken woman lying there, covered in a tangle of hospital sheets and tubes. I reopen the sketchbook onto my most recent drawing, and smile slightly. It looks strange and abstract, which I like; it is far more intense than a simple still life.

I stay in the small window seat for a while, continuing to sketch. I know I should sleep, but I am procrastinating; sleep is unpleasant for me, constantly dredging up memories that I would rather keep buried and throwing them at me. My subconscious has a cruel way of mocking me, and so I avoid sleeping for as long as I can. I don't want the nightmares.

It is getting very late and my eyelids are playing the traitor, attempting to close of their own accord and lull me into sleep, when I hear the bathroom door slam loudly. In our house in Texas we had three upstairs bathrooms- Rosalie and My Parents each had an ensuite- so we were seldom disturbed in the middle of the night. Since my parents still have- though significantly smaller than in Texas and lacking th large jacuzzi their old one did- their own bathroom, I am assuming that Rosalie is the one who is still awake. I frown when I hear the shower turn on loudly; not only is it likely to wake our parents up, but I am also infused as to why Rosalie would be showering at this time of night. Then again, she has been acting strangely for almost a year now...

The shower only goes for a few minutes, and then it stops. Considering there are no loud bellows of "_you selfish kids..._" coming from my parents' bedroom, I can only assume that- to my relief- Rosalie has not woken Dad up. I hear the faucet going loudly, then the door shut again, and Rosalie's footsteps padding across the landing. Unable to curb my curiosity, I open my door a crack.

"Rose!" I hiss into the darkness. I expect my sister to jump slightly, but her reaction is shocking; she tenses, looking up at me with a horrorstruck expression. Though it is dark I can still read her face; there is a mixture of terror and, to my surprise, _guilt_, as though she is being caught in some unspeakable act. I frown at this, folding my arms.

"What's going on?" I ask her quietly, and her eyes dart about.

"I..." Rosalie, who was once confident and articulate, stumbles for words.

"Were you taking a shower at this time in the night?" I ask her, and an almost hysterical laugh bubbles through her lips. I shush her, glancing warily at my parents' door. The last thing we need is to wake Dad up when he's in a bad mood.

"Yes," she says, after missing a beat. "I was just... Because we went to bed so late... I didn't..." she shakes her head frantically. "Does it even matter?"

In another lifetime, the old Jasper would have teased her about this in some way or at least interrogated her further. Now, I just shrug and let her pass, slipping into my own room. I am still confused as to her behaviour, but I am not going to pry. As I perch back on the window seat in my room, I notice that it has begun to rain again outside, meaning that tomorrow morning everything will be wet and...

Wait.

Wet.

I run a hand through my hair, letting out a low breath. If Rosalie had been having a shower, then wouldn't her hair have been wet? Or at least have some lingering droplets clinging to her face and hands? Wouldn't she have been wearing a bathrobe, instead of the usual draping kimono that she always wears (even in summer)?

So, if she wasn't, then why was the shower on? Why was she in the bathroom, and why was she acting so strange...

I shake my head. Something is definitely up with Rosalie, and the thought saddens me. It seems that in the past year, every aspect of my family has fallen apart. Grandma Whitlock passed away, Mama lost her cheery spirit, Dad turned into a constantly-angry workaholic, Rosalie has been acting suspiciously and I have withdrawn, all but given up...

What happened to my life?

The question plagues my head, even as my eyes begin to close and I unwillingly fall asleep.

* * *

_**Alice**_

* * *

My alarm goes off at seven, but I am already up, practically bouncing as I get ready. My brothers, who I sometimes think are part sloth, are still asleep, but I have always been an early bird. I brush my hair, lamenting slightly at how messy it is, and slip into the outfit I chose last night. (I do NOT believe in throwing on any old clothes, even if it _is_ just for school; an outfit needs at least a couple of hours foreplanning.) Downstairs, Mom- who, like me, is a morning person- is already cooking. The smell of scrambled eggs makes my stomach lurch with hunger, and I sit down at the bench.

"Morning, dear," she tells me gently, setting down a jug of orange juice. I pour myself a glass, taking a sip before almost doing a spit-take as Emmett stumbles into the room, looking still half-asleep and wearing clothes that probably haven't been washed in a fortnight.

"What are you _wearing_?" I demand, eyeing my brother in horror. He looks down at his clothes with bleary eyes and shrugs.

"What? Just because I'm not a fashionista like you..." he yawns, getting a plate out of the cabinet and helping himself to a huge mound of scrambled eggs straight out of the pan, before Mom even has time to put them in a dish. She clicks her tongue at her.

"Emmett!" she admonishes, though she is smiling slightly. "Save some for everyone else!"

Emmett just grins, shovelling in eggs happily. I fix myself a more reasonable portion and begin to eat, a little quickly; I want to get to school as early as I can today, though I am not a hundred percent sure why. When I have finished breakfast I thank Mom and bound upstairs quickly, almost knocking over Edward, the middle child of the family, as he passes me on his way downstairs.

"What's for breakfast?" he asks sleepily, and I roll my eyes.

"Scrambled eggs- if Emmett has left any, that is," I laugh and Edward speeds up, rushing into the kitchen before Emmett completely wipes out all the food, something that has happened all too many times before.

As usual, there is a steady dampening drizzle outside, so I ensure that when I leave the house my hair is stuffed under a hat; I do not want even frizzier hair than normal. I dash out to the car- _Edward's_ car, because my dream Porsche is still in the shop (but I'm still hoping that I might get it for my next birthday)- and am not surprised to see that I'm the first one there. I wait on the porch seat for a good fifteen minutes, until my brothers finally amble out the house.

"Took you long enough," I chastise them with a smirk, and Edward rolls his eyes.

"Don't blame me," he mutters. "Emmett ate all the eggs, and Mom had to make a fresh batch for me."

He shoots Emmett an accusing look, and Emmett grins evilly in response.

"You really are a human garbage disposal," I scoff, before lunging forward as he reaches for the front door. "Hey! I'm sitting in the front!"

Emmett raises an eyebrow. "Are not," he argues. I place my hands on my hips.

"Are too," I challenge, before giggling slightly. I know it is childish of me, and a bit hypocritical when I constantly accuse Emmett of acting like a three year old, but sometimes it is far too tempting. "I have shotgun."

Emmett pouts theatrically, while I stick my tongue at him immaturely. The rules of shotgun are strictly obeyed, however, and he climbs into the back seat. I plop down in the front, and Edward starts his car. As we are pulling out the driveway, he turns around and frowns at Emmett.

"Hey... Don't you have your own car?" he objects, furrowing his brow. Emmett pouts.

"The Jeep is a little... Battered..." he says slowly, and I try not to laugh, remembering the state that my brother's prized jeep was in the last time I saw it.

"If by battered, he means dented and covered in mud," I laugh. "_Someone's_ been driving off road..."

Edward rolls his eyes- which are the same shape and colour as mine- again, something he does approximately fifty times a day.

"Didn't Mom tell you not to do that any more?" he sighs, and Emmett shrugs his heavily muscled arms.

"I'm not three!" he whines, though I beg to differ; he acts like it all too often. "It's not like it's dangerous or anything..."

"Not dangerous?" Edward splutters. " You crash your jeep nearly every week..."

My brothers continue to argue the entire way to school, which is a regular occurrence and therefore something I am used to. We arrive late to school, a few precious minutes before the bell. The parking lot is soaking wet and full of student sprinting through the rain, some shielding their heads from the drizzle with hats, hoods or even their school binders. After driving for a few minutes until finally discvering a parking space we stop and I readjust the hat covering my hair as I open the car door, running as fast as I can without slipping on any one of the abundant murky puddles that cover the ground.

"Oi!" Emmett bellows across the lot, making a sophomore who is passing by jump- Emmett's outward appearance is very intimidating, despite his playful and childish personality. "Aren't you gonna say Goodbye, little Ali?"

I roll my eyes, but look back at the,, still half-sprinting across the lot towards the school.

"Bye!" I throw over my shoulder, turning around just in time to collide with a thud into someone standing in of me.

"Hey!" An unfamiliar voice exclaims. Embarrassment surging through me, I step back about to apologise, but my words fall silent when I see the person n front of me. She is a girl I have never seen before, and looks shockingly like the models displayed in my preferred magazines. Her honey blonde hair (I cannot help being envious of her silky, tame locks) and pale blue eyes, coupled with the fact that she is new to the school, makes it obvious that she must be the Hale daughter, Jasper's twin sister.

"You should watch where you're going," she snaps, and though her voice is not overly cold, at the same time it is lacking the politeness of her brother's. Her face, which I suppose would normally be beautiful, is twisted into a scowl. I frown slightly.

"Sorry," I say almost quizzically, folding my arms. Her pale eyes narrow a little bit, and I groan internally; unlike her brother, who I enjoyed speaking to even if it was just for a few minutes, she seems like the kind of person who will not let an innocent mishap like running into her go. I am reminded strongly of Lauren, the queen bee at Forks High School, and cringe- the last thing this school needs is another Lauren.

The girl scowls.

"It's Okay." she tells me in a clipped way, though from the tone of voice it is clear that it isn't. Her face is still stony. Typical, I think sourly. She does not seem like the most polite person- almost anyone else, except queen bee Lauren, would smile and shrug it off if someone _accidentally_ ran into them. Still, Mom always told me to be courteous to people even if they are rude to me, so I just give her a smile and turn away to walk off. I make my way- carefully, this time, to ensure I don't run headlong into anyone else- towards Bella and Angela, who give me quizzical looks.

"Was that the Hale girl?" Bella asks timidly. I nod, with a sigh.

"I accidentally ran into her," I explain with a slight pout, as the three of us start walking into the school halls. "She seemed really pissed about something so little. I didn't even make her drop her books or anything..."

"I heard her name is Rosalie," Angela tells me with a faint smile. "Maybe she wasn't annoyed at you. She might just have been startled, or a little shy."

I remember the hard look on Rosalie's face, and the way she snapped at me to be more careful, but I do not contradict Angela. She is sweet, and favours looking for the good in people- sometimes, I wish I could be as optimistic as she is.

"Maybe." I say halfheartedly, though my face lights up. "_Ooooh!_ Did I tell you two that I met her brother, Jasper, on the weekend?" I begin to tell them, but am drowned out by the loud rattle of the bell, echoing down the hallways from crackling speakers that really need replacing. I make a mental note to tell them at lunch, then remind myself with a grin that Jasper has promised to sit with us at lunch- I just hope he remembers, or doesn't blow us off to sit with the "cool" people. He doesn't seem that type, but you never know.

Homeroom is first, and due to our small student populace we only have two homerooms per grade. Unfortunately, due to the alphabetical placing of our names, both Bella and Angela are in the other one, leaving me alone. However, as I slip into the room, my eyes pick two slightly tanned faces out the sea of mostly pale, rain-splattered Forks Students. Sitting in the front (the only spare seats are in the front row, since for some reason most students hate sitting there) are Jasper and his sister- Rosalie, I think it was. Rosalie looks incredibly disgruntled, scowling out the window, while Jasper looks oddly... blank. His eyes have taken a withdrawn, faraway gleam that instantly piques my curiosity.

* * *

**_Jasper_**

* * *

First day at Forks high school is as nightmarish as I expected, maybe even more so. If I thought the stares of people in the town were bad, I was obviously ill-prepared for just how alienating being a new student in Forks would be. High School is, of course, gossip central, so every single student seemed prepared for our arrival. The moment Rosalie and I step into the grounds people begin bouncing up to us, grinning and introducing themselves. I smile falsely at them but Rose, who is in a bad mood, ignores them or makes sarcastic remarks.

"Someone's cheerful today," I mutter, and she sighs.

"Leave me alone," Rose snaps, folding her arms across her chest. "I'm not happy and _not_ in the mood to greet all these annoying people."

This is odd, as Rosalie was once a social creature. Now, like me, she is far more withdrawn than she once was, though she still seems to have her old energy and bright disposition at times. I had half expected her to be thrilled at the prospect of meeting new people, but she seems thoroughly unamused. There was a time when, being twins, Rosalie and I used to know what each other was thinking. Now, the distance between us is often achingly large. She is still one of the people I am closest to, but I do not really consider myself close to anyone, any more.

"They aren't that bad," I lie dully, and Rosalie raises an eyebrow.

"They're staring at us like we're circus freaks," she spits, and the word freak sends an involuntary shudder down my body.

_Look who it is, the little freak... You are such a freak... Come on, close the lid, leave the freak to rot..._

I gasp, bringing myself out the memory, and find Rosalie looking at me; I have stopped walking, and am a good few paces behind her.

"You Okay?" she asks me and I just nod, shaking off the last images of the dreaded trash can incident that still plagues my mind. Rosalie does not know much about it, and I will not tell her; I find it nearly impossible to speak about it.

"So, where do we have home room?" My sister changes the subject, bending down and pulling her timetable out her backpack. I note that she has laminated it to prevent the ceaseless drizzle from ruining the paper.

"Room 2A... But where is that even supposed to be?" she mutters sourly. I shrug; I am as clueless about this school as she is. Rose lets out an irritated noise through her teeth, looking around.

"I guess we'd better look for it, then," she sighs morosely. "That stupid woman at the office was NO help at all."

I nod dully in agreement, trudging across the muddy ground towards the school. Forks high school is very different in appearance to our school back in Texas, and yet there is an unmistakeable scholarly air about it all the same. It is old fashioned, as opposed to modern architecture, and surrounded by vast amounts of greenery. It probably would look nice, except the grey clouds cast a dreary atmosphere around the building.

"I want to find my locker," I tell Rosalie monotonously. I don't really care about finding my locker, but I would rather escape to the school halls where there might be some hope of blending in. She nods once and I walk on ahead, quickening my pace to get in out of the rain. Inside, it is crowded (or as crowded as a school with a significantly small student populace can be) and this relieves me; though I know that there are more people around, which is not exactly pleasant, it is easier to blend in amongst the rest of the damp, coat-wrapped students.

After a few minutes of loitering in the halls, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, the bell rings loudly. I look at my timetable again, following a tide of students as they make their way down to homeroom. The doors, which are peeling and look in desperate need of a revamp, are marked with smudged metal numbers, and my eyes travel along the rows until I finally reach my destination. To my surprise, Rosalie is already waiting at a desk, looking an odd mix of irritated and guilty. Usually, she turns up late to class, so I am surprised that she arrived here earlier than me and that I didn't see her enter. As the students slide in, pulling off hats and gloves and unwinding scarves, I take a seat next to Rosalie, setting my backpack down on the floor.

"You got here early," I remark blankly, and Rosalie's shoulders heave in a shrug.

"I guess so." she mutters, turning to look out the window. "I was talking to the woman at the office. There's a running team here, you know. Maybe I'll join."

A strained, weak laugh escapes my lips; I assume Rosalie is joking, since she hates running- or used to, anyway. When she scowls, however, I realise she is serious.

"What? You think I'm not fit enough to join the running team?" she snaps, though she sounds more hurt than angry. I recoil slightly.

"No, Rosalie," I sigh. "I just-"

"Or too fat?" her voice quavers, and I frown at her. Rosalie has been very defensive and touchy lately, and I miss the sunny person she once was. Then again, I remind myself that I, too, have changed drastically from the cheerful person I was just one year ago.

"Of course not." I assure her, though I struggle to make my voice sound anything more than resigned and melancholy. Why would Rosalie be concerned about her weight? She is one of the thinnest girls I have met. "I just didn't know you liked running."

She doesn't reply to this, just turns to face the window again. I wonder if I am this frustrating, always withdrawing into myself instead of talking to anyone. Then I wonder why I care- it's not as if anyone wants to hear what I have to say anyway.

The students have almost finished filing into the room, most of them staring wide-eyed at us like children staring through the glass at the zoo. To avoid their uncomfortable glances and whispering, I tune them (and my surroundings) out, something I do frequently. It is only when a tiny girl steps into the room that I snap back into reality, with a jolt of recognition; from the wavy dark hair, tucked under a hat, to the wide green eyes and incredibly slight figure, it is the girl I encountered last night at the store, Alice. She turns and beams at me, and I force a smile back.

I hate faking smiles, but I don't want to seem rude.

Besides, this girl was refreshingly friendly to me Yesterday, so I don't want to be rude to her. Her face lights up, eyes flashing, and she gives me a little wave almost as though I am an old friend she has known for years, instead of someone I spoke to for a few minutes.

"That's the girl I met yesterday," I tell Rosalie, who looks up at Alice before narrowing her eyes slightly.

"That girl ran into me this morning," she mutters irritably. I frown, waiting for what Alice did to have offended Rosalie.

"And?" I prompt after a moment. Rosalie raises an eyebrow.

"What? There's no _and_." she says harshly. "She ran into me. It was rude."

I'm surprised that Rosalie seems to have taken something trivial like that so personally, but I choose not to comment. The teacher, a balding middle-aged man who looks thoroughly bored of the world of academics, reads out the roll. When Rosalie and I answer roll-call, the few people in the room who weren't staring at us before turn towards us, mutters of interest rippling across the room. I want to shrink down in my seat and hide- when is the novelty of new people going to wear off in this town? Snatches of conversation erupt around us, and though I try to tune them out I cannot help hearing some of the students' curious remarks as they hiss and whisper frantically.

"_Oh my God, it's the Hales, Dad told me that they came from Texas..._"

"_The girl's super hot, I wonder if she would go to the spring dance with me..._"

"_Did they say the guy's name was Casper? Like the ghost_?"

The last remark comes from a confused looking boy behind us. Rosalie hears it and snorts loudly, but I don't care. There was a time when I would have laughed at someone mishearing my name, but I rarely find humour in things these days.

It turns out that homeroom in Forks is far less strict than it had been in Texas. While in Texas we were ordered to complete homework or do something worthwhile, the teacher- who I have already forgotten the name of- sits back at his desk and begins flipping through a newspaper while the students talk, occasionally looking up from the sports pages to shush us lamely if the noise grows too loud. I prefer things like this, where I can slip into myself instead of having to contribute. So I sit back, letting my mind wander (though I firmly stop it from going in the direction of thinking about Grandma Whitlock, Father or the Trash can incident.). After a few moments, however, something snaps into focus; I had forgotten about last night, and Rosalie's mysterious "shower", or whatever she was doing in the bathroom.

"Rosalie, what was going on with you last night-" I begin, but she lets out an irritated growl.

"I was having a shower. I already told you."

Then she turns even further around, tossing her long hair over her shoulder with an _and that is that_ finality. I sigh slightly- something is definitely going on with Rosalie. And yet, once again, I do not press the matter further. However, I can't curb the tiny pang of regret that strikes me. I know I withdrew to myself a long time ago, and yet it still saddens me to think that I am growing more and more distant from my family each day.

* * *

_**Alice**_

* * *

It is Art class when I see Jasper next. The class is small, just eight people- now nine- and naturally, seven of those gawk at him. I, however, just smile lightly before looking back at the project I am completing. I don't want to make him feel uncomfortable, after all. Our sophomore art teacher, an eccentric woman who insists on us calling her Zafrina and not by her last name, gives him her usual mysterious smile when he enters.

"Jasper. Welcome." She tells him deeply. Most students who are new to the art class are intimidated by her- she is tall (and not just compared to my slight height) standing over six foot, with an unusually deep voice and penetrating eyes that are usually accentuated by large amounts of black make up. Still, she's the best art teacher we have ever had- our old one was rather boring. I am surprised, however, that Jasper isn't intimidated; he nods once, appearing impassive.

"This semester, we are working with unorthodox drawing materials," she tells him. Another pensive nod. "We have already begun work sketching with charcoal..."

She gestures to a box of the gritty, black sticks. Jasper looks down, fingering one absently. Zafrina makes a show of setting up an easel for him, and I feel a strange stab of triumph when she seats him next to me. She points out the mannequin we are supposed to be roughly drawing. Without hesitation, Jasper picks up a stick of charcoal and begins to sketch, looking more focused and content than I have ever seen him. I am mesmerised, watching His hand as it glides along the paper, forming a rough yet startlingly realistic outline. I look back at my own sketch, which I have been working on for two periods now, and feel a strange desire to laugh; two hours' of my work is nothing compared to barely twenty minutes of his.

"That's really good," I tell him, peering over Jasper's shoulder as he draws. "Do you sketch a lot?"

He is silent for a few moments, and I worry that he is ignoring me. However, after a little while, he smiles- and, to my surprise, I think it is the first genuine smile I have seen him make, as opposed to the false one he has worn almost every time I have seen him.

"Yes," he tells me, still scratching at the paper, his hands stained black from the charcoal. "I like drawing still life. I used to draw portraits, but..." he shakes his head slightly.

"But?" I prompt, before I can stop myself, and Jasper frowns again.

"My sketchbook with all my best portraits was..." he hesitates. "_Lost_."

The way he says that makes me suspect he is bending the truth, but I do not push him. It is not as though I expect him to confide in me deeply or anything- we are hardly close friends, after all. Still, there is something enigmatic about him, and the way he seems to be stuck in his shell, almost hidden from the world.

"That's a shame," I say after a moment, and he nods again, reaching out to smudge part of his drawing. Already, it is a wonderful sketch of the chipped mannequin in the centre of the room, the section he has completed perfectly shadowed. When it is finished, I can already tell that it will look perfect; Zafrina is going to be overjoyed at how talented the newest member of the class is.

I turn back to my own work, not wanting to annoy Jasper, and begin sketching, though I cannot help being distracted by the sound of his charcoal swishing across the page, not to mention the occasional whispers of gossip that surround us, other students still speculating who Jasper is and why his family have moved here. When the period is almost up, Zafrina returns from the art teachers' lounge, clutching a striped mug with some kind of herbal tea in one spider-like hand. She strolls around the room, braided hair swishing over her shoulder as she bends down to inspect some of our work. When she sees Jaspers, she makes a noise of appreciation.

"Very good, Jasper," she compliments him, and he smiles again- another genuine smile, which for some reason makes my stomach squirm happily. "You have good, raw talent."

"Thanks, Ma'am," he tells her, turning back to his work. Zafrina's dark eyes rake over his drawing again, and I see them light up in appreciation.

"Tell me, Jasper," she places the hand not holding her tea on his shoulder. "Are you passionate about art?"

At this, he hesitates.

"I wouldn't say _passionate_," Jasper mumbles, looking down slightly. There is a flash of sorrow that crosses his eyes for just a moment, but it is gone before I can analyse it any more.

"But you like it?" Zafrina's voice is even more heavily accented when she is happy. "Because you know, there is an art competition coming up, if you are interested in submitting a piece..."

Jasper opens his mouth then closes it, as if swallowing back words. His emotionless façade lapsed, he seems torn, then the nonchalance returns.

"No," he tells her blankly. "I don't think so."

Zafrina looks sorely disappointed as she glides away to inspect the rest of the class' work. Jasper drops his charcoal and slumps slightly, head down, looking just as disappointed as she is.

"Are you okay?" I ask him softly, but when he looks up his face is a mask, an enigma, again and conveys nothing.

"Of course, darlin'." That smile. That _fake_ smile. Does he think I'm unable to see past it? I shake my head.

"You really should consider submitting something to the art competition." I tell him after a moment, peering once again at his work. I remember how excited Zafrina was when she announced the inter-state art competition that was being held, and how disappointed she became when no students showed enough talent or initiative to enter. Jasper shakes his head firmly, and though he looks closed and unwilling to discuss his reasons, I push this time.

"Why not?"

He is silent for a few moments, staring out through the classroom window at the drizzle and vast fernery outside. Then, he turns back to me, looking rueful.

"My father thinks art is stupid," he says matter-of-factly, looking back at his portrait. At this, I can't help scoffing.

"Seriously? So enter it anyway, what's he gonna d-" Jasper holds a hand up to cut me off.

"I don't think that much of art, either." He contradicts. I don't believe this at all. Not from a person who is that talented and confessed not ten minutes ago that he loves sketching; He's lying. Again. This should annoy me, and it does slightly, but it makes my curiosity soar even more. Why does Jasper feel the need to lie and undermine his incredible talent?

"You said you liked-" again, his slender hand comes up to hang in the air and silence me.

"Please." he says flatly, looking back at his work. "I don't want to enter any art competitions. Simple as that."

It is clear he does not want to discuss this, and who am I to push him further when I barely know him? I turn back to my own work, agitated now, mind continually turning on to the Hales. I try to distract myself with art, and fail. I try looking around at the eclectic student sculptures and artworks around the room, but Jasper still invades my thoughts. I even try distracting myself with thoughts of the upcoming shopping trip I am planning, something that is usually a surefire distraction, but the shoes and dresses in my head all become the same pale blue of Jasper's eyes.

_What's up with him? Is it something with his father? Why is Jasper always hiding in his shell? Is he just shy about being a new student and new in town, or is it something more..._

The bell rings and I nearly topple off the ridiculously high art stool I am on. As Zafrina comes around to cover our artworks, I cross over to the battered sink in the room to wash the black coat of charcoal from my hands. Lunch is coming up, and I remember how excited I was this morning when Jasper had promised to sit with our table. Now, however, I am nervous; what if he was offended by my questions, and thinks I am irritating?

However, when the bells signifies the end of class, I look at Jasper and cannot help blurting my thoughts out.

"Are you still sitting with us at Lunch?" I ask- or rather, demand. A small part of me frets that he may have forgotten I asked him the other day or changed his mind, but I push that away and beam hopefully at Jasper.

He pauses, then nods slowly.

"Of course."

* * *

The cafeteria is crowded, as usual. There are a few wooden tables and benches outside designed for lunch, but due to the constant rainfall it is usually inadvisable to go outside for fear or being drenched, and even when it's sunny the wooden seats are covered in mould and moss from being in the wet so often.

I scan the room for my friends; Bella is in the lunch line biting her lip and staring nervously at the foods on display as though they will leap up and bite her, while Angela is sitting at our usual table in one of the less noisy corners, reading. I navigate around the crowds of students and make my way to our usual table, setting my bag- it is my favourite, a leather designer piece- down on the chair beside me.

"Hey, Ange," I greet her, and she looks up from the book with a smile. I start pulling my lunchbox from my bag- I almost always take lunch from home, as Mom's cooking is far superior to that of the cafeteria staff- and pause, looking around hopefully. Eventually, I spot a tall figure with a shock of blonde hair looking around the room, and wave to him.

"Jasper!" I call out. His blond head turns towards me, and a small smile of acknowledgement crosses his lips. I point madly to the chair next to me, and can't help grinning when I see him approach our table.

"Hey, y'all," he says softly, and my friends smile at him.

"Hey," Angela tells him with a wide smile. "Welcome to Forks!"

Bella smiles shyly at him, but does not say anything. She is only reasonably new to Forks herself, and while she can show an outgoing, fun-loving side she is painfully shy around strangers. Jasper sits down in the seat next to me, and I can't help grinning at this.

"So, how are you liking Forks?" I ask him, biting down on my wrap. Jasper shrugs non-committally.

"It's nice enough," he says simply. "Very different to Texas..."

His blue eyes travel along the table, and I notice them lingering in my lunch box.

"That looks nice," he comments after a few beats, indicating the lemon scone leftover from Yesterday that I've packed. I smile slightly, noticing that this is the first time Jasper has spoken other than just answering a question.

"It's lemon. My mother made a batch last night," I tell him cheerfully, unwrapping it and breaking off a piece. "Do you want to try?"

He takes it with his slender fingers, and I grin.

"Mom's the best cook," I inform him. "They're my Grandma's recipe..."

He freezes, piece of scone half way to hs mouth, and I see a flicker cross his face for a moment. But before I can figure out why, it passes and he pops the piece of scone into his mouth.

"Delicious," he tells me sincerely, and my smile returns.

"I'll tell Mom you said that," I inform him, taking a bite myself. As usual, Mom's scones are perfect: crumbly, dense and soft, with just enough lemon to compliment the buttery flavour. I wipe a few crumbs away from my mouth, making a mental note to reapply my lip gloss, which I am sure will be messed up.

"My Mama used to make scones," he mutters, so softly I am not sure if I was meant to hear. "She doesn't any more, though..."

I consider asking why, though decide against it. I take a large bite of my scone, looking idly around the cafeteria. On a table in the corner, I spot Jasper's sister hunched alone, picking at a tray of garden salad. Though she was rude to me, the sight of her alone and brooding is piteous, so I turn to Jasper.

"Do you want to ask your sister to sit with us?" I ask politely, half-hoping he'll say no. Then again, as Angela said this morning, she might be a nice person- it's hardly fair for me to judge her based on one incident this morning.

Jasper's features barely change from the nondescript expression he has assumed.

"I guess so." He shrugs, pulling out a battered phone- I can't help staring at the large crack down the screen, and wondering why he has not fixed it- and texting with flying fingers. A few minutes later, I see Rosalie glance at her phone, a small smile twisting onto her full lips. I expect her to decline rudely, so I am surprised when she stands up gracefully, a few minutes later appearing tentatively at our table.

"Hey." She says, her voice shockingly soft compared to the way she had spoken to me this morning. She looks unhappy, but less haughty and more uncomfortable.

"This is my sister, Rosalie," Jasper introduces. He smiles, but once again I see that it is fake. Why is he so averse to smiling? There's definitely something going on with him...

"I'm Angela," Angela cuts through my thoughts, giving Rosalie a warm and welcoming smile. Bella peers up shyly from behind her long curtain of hair.

"Bella," She says meekly. Oh, Bella- always so quiet and determined to fade into the background (that is, unless someone threatens to give her a makeover or take her shopping, in which case she turns from a shy and malleable girl into a furious ball of fire). Although, I think with a small smirk, she seems to be a little less shy and a little more forward around a certain bronze-haired brother of mine.

"And I'm Alice," I say politely, half-expecting Rosalie to scowl or blow me off. I am surprised when instead, she manages a tiny smile.

"I remember you from this morning," she says, and her voice is surprisingly light about the whole incident. Considering she was acting as though I had committed a crime against humanity this morning, this is very relieving.

"Yeah... Sorry about that," I shrug, but Rosalie shakes her head.

"It's nothing," she replies, and it is all I can do to stop gaping at this. I had her pegged for the haughty bitch-type, and I wonder if I was too quick to judge, or if this docile Rosalie is a façade she puts on around her brother. Either way, I decide to hold off judgement this time, and gesture to a seat.

"Do you want to sit down?" I offer. She nods and slips into the seat, setting down her tray. There is nothing but a bottle of water and salad on it, and I notice that Jasper is looking at this sparse lunch too. Rosalie looks up and meets my gaze, blue eyes suddenly turning sharp.

"I had some pizza," she says quickly. "I just ate it already..."

I nod, trying to remain unfazed by her sudden irritation, and turn back to my scone. Since I offered her brother some, and do not want to appear rude, I hold out the faintly yellow pastry to her.

"Do you-" I begin, but her hand bats the food away before I can even finish speaking."

"No thanks," she half-snarls, before inhaling deeply and composing herself. "I mean... I don't really like scones. Sorry," she gives me a small smile, and I nod again; it's fair enough. Jasper, however, frowns at this.

"You always used to-" he starts to say, though he hesitates before shaking his head, face returning to the smooth, almost emotionless state it was before. "Never mind."

I look between the two siblings, and try not to pout. There is definitely something different about the Hales; Jasper, as friendly as he is, seems to shut everything out most of the time while from what I have seen of Rosalie, her mood seems to change constantly; she has frequently turned snappish, only to return to a more pleasant, docile state a few moments later. I wonder what made them like this- Rosalie could just be moody or easily irritated by nature, but something must have happened to Jasper to make him shut himself up in his shell constantly. And, though I know it is none of my business, I want to find out.

The rain falls steadily outside, and our lunch table grows quiet, the only sound a quiet conversation between Angela and Bella about a recent book they have read, which is all but drowned out by the chatter around us. I want to join in, and yet I have not read the book, so I doubt my input will be particularly valuable. Sometimes, though I know it is fickle, I wish I could discuss clothes with either one of them. I look to Jasper, who is staring quietly at the remnants of his food spread across his lunch tray, and then across to Rosalie, who is picking at her salad unenthusiastically. And suddenly, without warning, I feel a huge surge of pity for both of them- stared at by the other students at Forks High, both outcasts, their old home over 1300 miles away. I was born and raised in Forks, and am therefore accustomed to the gloomy setting, but to them it must seem completely alien and unwelcome. I am overcome with a strange urge to hug both of them out of pity and, were they anyone else, I would leap up and tackle them. However, since they are both rather aloof and would probably find something like that creepy, I settle for giving them a reassuring smile instead.

"You get used to the rain," I tell them softly. Rosalie looks up, and I am surprised when a tiny smile cracks her lips again.

"It's not good for the hair, though," she says dully, and I laugh a little. At least she is attempting conversation, instead of blowing me off and tossing her hair like the primadonna I thought she was.

"I know. Mine goes completely insane when wet, no matter how many treatments they put on it at the salon. At least your hair's straight and thin," I note, gesturing to Rosalie's hair. As I do, I frown. From a distance it looked stunning and healthy, but up close I can see that it is dry and the ends all look dead. I wonder if the heat in Texas dried it out, or if she's naturally brunette and has damaged it by bleaching it blonde- though the latter, I realise, cannot be the case as Jasper is naturally blonde as well.

"Mm," Rosalie fingers her hair, almost ruefully. "It used to be thicker, but..."

She doesn't finish her sentence and I don't expect her to. Maybe, I dare to hope, Rosalie and I could be friends one day, but since I barely know her and she seems pretty stand-offish, that day is not today.

Lunch seems to drag on, and while Angela and I strike up a conversation, Rosalie and Jasper sit quietly, and Bella is silent, though her wide brown eyes occasionally flick across to where Edward and his friends are sitting. He meets her gaze and smiles, and Bella drops her head.

Both are ridiculously naive.

Bella has been half in love with Edward since she was ten years old. Edward, though less obvious with his feelings, gets a funny crooked smile whenever her mentions my friend or whenever she comes over to our house- I have dubbed it his 'Bella smile'. It's sweet that these two both hold strong feelings for each other, though they try to hide it, and I cannot help envying Bella- and Angela too, for that matter, as she and Ben have been unofficially together for two years. I, however, have never had a strong romantic attachment to anyone- a few crushes or Boys crushing on me here and there, though they ended badly. I remember, with a faint smile, smacking Laurent Damon in the head when he tried to kiss me in eighth grade.

Sometimes, I joke with my friends that I will always be the swinging bachelorette who lives alone in a giant penthouse apartment and shops every day. And often, I think I wouldn't really mind that- after all, there are few boys I have ever really connected with...

Then, for some reason, my eyes flick towards Jasper as he lounges gracefully in his chair, staring into space.

_Maybe..._

No. I cut that thought off at the roots. I don't even know Jasper well enough to call him my friend- I've barely known him for _two days_. And I would, admittedly, like to be his friend, but since he is so withdrawn it will take a long time to really get to know him.

Still, when the bell rings and Jasper looks at me, I feel a slight happy dance in my stomach. I don't understand why I have taken to him so much, since he barely talks. Perhaps that is why I like him- how he shows flashes of personality, only to cover them up and retreat back into his shell. All I know is that I would like to discover more about Jasper Hale, and maybe his sister Rosalie...

* * *

_**Rosalie**_

* * *

They're starting to figure it out. Oh nononononono. That Alice girl... The way she looked at me...

What if she knows? What if Jasper does? The shower last night was a close call, and now I am on my toes more than ever.

_Can not let anyone figure out..._

If they find out... if just one person guesses my secret... I'm dead. Completely and utterly dead.

* * *

**That was a reeeeally long chapter that I feel did not really achieve much. Gah...**

**So... something's up with Rosalie, which you will hear more of later. Alice is intrigued by Jasper, who is very withdrawn but has a passion for art. Jasper's father is a d*ck. Hopefully I will be able to write a shorter and more eventful chapter next time. If I still have any readers.**

**Thanks for all my reviews and to all who are reading :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**I don't own twilight.**

* * *

_**Jasper**_

* * *

I am relieved when school is over. It wasn't as horrendous as I had expected, but it was still unsettling to be cast into the spotlight and stared at by all other students. The only one who was bearable was Alice; she seemed friendly and sunny, her chirpy smile utterly refreshing compared to the gaping stares of others.

We don't have a car, which means that we will have to take the dubious- looking school bus home. Or rather, _I_ will; Rosalie shakes her head as soon as she sees it.

"I'm going to do work in the library. Someone offered to give me a lift," Rosalie mutters. I highly doubt this, since she was in almost every one of my classes and we did not receive homework, Rosalie hates libraries, and she barely interacted with other people all day. However, I just nod once and climb onto the bus, which is stuffy and smells awful due to the number of damp students packed into it. Either the bus driver (a grouchy looking old man who glares at the students through thick glasses) is a terrible driver, the bus is so ancient it cannot function properly or both, as the vehicle lurches, stutters and grinds its way along the road.

In Texas, the buses were clean and efficient. I sigh slightly, looking out the window at the green haze that passes. It's raining. I am not surprised, as the weather here is highly predictable. Though the rain can sometimes seem fresh, it currently appears as nothing but gloomy and oppressive. I like being away from Texas for the reason that I can make a new start here, but Forks certainly is dismal. Then again, I remind myself, I would feel dismal wherever I was.

* * *

"How was school?"

Mama looks tired, as usual, her once spirited eyes lacklustre and ringed with black. I wonder if I look like that- I probably do, I think with a sigh. She sits at the counter, while a faint smell of meat wafts through the air.

"Fine."

Monosyllabic, as usual. I know she deserves more, deserves a son who will be cheerful and supportive. And she once did, but now I cannot muster that. She looks up, opens her mouth as though to speak, and then shakes her head.

"Jasper-" she mutters, but does not finish. She looks away at the oven, and I follow her eyes.

"What's for dinner?" I ask her, more out of obligation than curiosity.

"Chilli," Mama tells me, and for a moment I feel the tiniest smidgen of hope. Then she sighs, staring down at the counter. "Frozen."

"Oh." Of course. It has been a long time since Mama cooked, especially not her special home recipe for chilli, which used to be one of my favourites. For a moment, I think of Alice again, and how she gave me some of her mother's homemade scone. I wonder what Alice's mother is like; does she have the same bright eyes and petite build as Alice? Is she as energetic and effervescent as her daughter? Then I frown, wondering why I care. It has been a long time since I have truly thought or cared about something so trivial.

The frozen chilli lacks proper flavour, and is rather disappointing, but again I do not really care. I am becoming accustomed to the bland taste and chalky texture of microwave dinners. Rosalie appears at the front door just as we have started eating, looking drenched to the bone. Her blonde hair hangs dripping down her back, and water clings to every pore. Illuminated in the light of the doorway, she looks oddly corpse-like. Mama looks up and her mouth pops open when she sees the state of her daughter, eyes flashing with concern.

"Rosalie?" she gasps. "Where were you?"

Rosalie shrugs, looking hard and irritated. She steps inside, wiping her heavy boots- at Texas, she used to wear delicate heels and sandals, complaining significantly when she had to change to the more practical footwear- on the mat inside, hanging her heavy parka up against the wall.

"At the library," she says harshly, folding her arms. Mama frowns, moving forward slightly.

"You're soaking," Mama says softly, reaching out as though to touch Rosalie's shoulder, though Rosalie ducks away, seeming more aloof than ever. "It looks like you walked home..."

At those words, Rosalie lets out a sharp, and rather forced laugh that makes me tense.

"Of course not," she says hastily. "Someone drove me..."

She turns towards the stairs and starts up them all too quickly, but Mama calls up to her.

"Dinner's ready," Her voice is still soft and weak, as it nearly always is. Rosalie looks down, eyes scouring the food laid out. I admit that it does not look the most appetising, and Rosalie blanches slightly, taking in the sloppy microwaved dish. Still, she begrudgingly walks over to the table and picks up her plate of food.

"Is it Okay if I eat in my room?" she asks brusquely, her voice almost daring Mama to contradict her. I am shocked by how sharp Rosalie is- she reminds me horribly of my father right now. I want to tell her this, but I keep silent. I'm surprised that Rosalie even bothers to ask any more, since she nearly always eats in her room. Still, Mama nods with another sigh and Rosalie snatches up her plate, turning on her heel and stalking up the stairs. Mama looks down, her lips twisting into a frown as stares at her food.

"Did you meet anyone at school?" She asks, after a few minutes of shivering silence. I just shrug, but at the look of total depression on her face, I relent and give her a proper answer.

"Most people stared at me," I tell her monotonously. "There was one girl who was nice though. Her name was Alice."

It's not a very enthusiastic answer, but at least I am giving her more than a few mumbled monosyllables. Mama seems a little appeased by this, and shoots me a half smile. She seems happy that I have actually acknowledged another person, rather than being antisocial and keeping to myself.

"That's good," She nods, turning to stare at the clock hanging from the wall. It is nearing five o-clock, and we both know to keep on our toes around this time of evening; any moment now, my father could barge in muttering angrily about some aspect of his job or complaining about something or other. More often than not, he works late these days, but occasionally he will come home straight after work and become infuriated if his dinner is not ready for him.

Thinking of my father reminds me of art today, and how the teacher tried to persuade me to enter some art competition. Thinking of _that_ makes my chest feel hollow; as much as I try to convince myself that art is not important, I cannot quell the longing to showcase my work. But I know what would happen, if my father found out. Visions of sketches, torn up out of fury, flit through my head and I flinch.

No. I will not let art- just a stupid hobby, I reiterate mentally- damage everything. It's better to stay in the background, anyway. I learned that long ago.

* * *

_**Alice**_

* * *

I should have prepared myself. As soon as I set foot inside, hanging up my dripping coat on the coat rack, Emmett pokes his head into the hallway, grinning maliciously.

"So, Allicat!" He booms, and I stifle a groan; he is inevitably about to tease me, one of his favourite pastimes. I turn to face him, placing my hands on my hips.

"What now, Emmett?" I roll my eyes and his grin widens.

"I saw you got to sit with _Jaaaaasper_..." He drags out. I shoot him a look, eyebrow raised. Emmett will definitely jump at any chance to irritate me, I think drily.

"He's someone I've known for two days," I scoff. In fact, it is a very loose interpretation of the word known. I barely know Jasper; he seems very withdrawn, and it was hard to get more than a few false smiles from him.

"So?" Emmett grins. "Maybe it's love at first si-"

I smack him in the gut, and though my tiny hand against his muscular chest isn't enough to do any damage, it shuts him up.

"Don't be ridiculous," I snort at him, passing my laughing brother and walking into the kitchen. Edward is there, finishing off the last of Mom's homemade scones from last night.

"Don't tell Emmett," he mutters quietly. "If he had his way, he'd have eaten all of them the second Mom got them out the oven."

I grin; often, it'll turn into Edward and I vs Emmett in our house, because Emmett is just so irritating he deserves to be teamed up against.

"Don't tell Emmett what?" A boisterous voice protests from the other room, and Edward and I share identical grimaces as Emmett bounds in, looking as eager as a puppy.

"SCONES!" He yells, so loud I am surprised the neighbours don't hear him. "Yes!"

"My Scones," Edward corrects, lifting the final piece of scone to his mouth and swallowing it. Emmett looks thoroughly crestfallen, and I giggle.

"What?" Edward rolls his eyes. "You ate about six last night..."

Emmett lets out a huff. "I'm a growing boy?"

To this, Edward replies with a snort. "What am I, then?"

However, this baits Emmett even more. "A girl," he replies swiftly, reaching down to ruffle Edward's hair. This is probably the ultimate insult to Edward.

"Not the hair!" he yelps, shoving a chortling Emmett's hand away and tweaking his prized hair. I stifle a laugh at this. Edward's worst nightmare is probably getting his hair ruined and has been ever since the crib. I remember when he was five how he wanted to join the navy, then cried after finding out they have to shave their heads. Granted, I spend just as much time preening my hair, but I'm a _girl_ and have every right to.

"Emmett, stop monopolising your brother," Mom calls, appearing through the glass doors that lead outside from where she is sitting on the porch. Mom likes to do that; relax outside with a book and a drink, even though it is gloomy and raining outside. I have tried it a few times, and though it is nice to breath in the scent of fresh rain and relax, I am far too active to enjoy sitting for long periods of time- I like to get up and do things like reorganising my wardrobe, looking up the collections that are due to come out or even just doodling wildly in a notebook.

Mom steps inside, brushing off the faint drops of rain that have managed to cling to her clothes.

"Dinner should be ready in an hour," she informs us, shooting Emmett- who is inching towards the pantry- a look. Emmett frowns.

"An hour is so long," he pouts, and I snort.

"Can you go more than twenty minutes without eating? You were stuffing your face with doritos on the way back from school..."

"Yes, and in _my car_." Edward grumbles. He despises Emmett eating in his car- Emmett is not exactly the most delicate eater, and tends to get crumbs everywhere. Edward still has not forgiven him for the time he left a melted candy bar on the seat, staining the upholstery.

"I'm a growing boy."

This is Emmett's typical excuse, one said so often that I mouth the words with him, smirking. Mom places her hands on her hips, shooting her eldest son another stern look.

"No more food until dinner," she says firmly, but the moment she has turned her back and is in the lounge room, Emmett disappears into the walk-in-pantry, and returns holding a box of protein bars.

"You're not going to eat them all, are you?" Edward says shrewdly, and Emmett nods, tearing one open with his teeth and cramming the entire thing in his mouth, before bounding upstairs. Edward turns to me, face disdainful.

"I often wonder how on earth I can be related to him," he says drily. I laugh slightly, comparing my two brothers on my head. They are extremely different, and yet I love them both ridiculously. Edward is highly intelligent, musical and the kind of sibling who can give me serious advice if I need it. Emmett is sporty and playful, and his antics can easily cheer me up if ever I need it. Rolled into one, they would make the ultimate big brother.

Sometimes I have wished I'd had a sister, but I am usually happy with the family I do have.

I slip out of the kitchen and upstairs to my bedroom. I may have homework, but I honestly can not be bothered to complete it yet. Dad often jokingly despairs of my lazy attitude towards schoolwork, but he knows it does not hinder me. I may take a long time to get it done, but it is almost always handed in on time and I usually get good marks- he can't really complain.

To pass the time, I log onto Facebook. I am not the hugest fan of the site, unlike many of my peers, but I do occasionally enjoy trawling through it. Emmett has, as usual, shared several ridiculous and trivial images which make me snicker, and I scroll down. Lauren Mallory and Tyler Crowley have officially ended their relationship and are now both "single", but I already knew this- it has been buzzing around school for a while. I check my pending friend requests to see if any have been accepted, and then my cursor hovers over the option to find friends.

Without thinking, my hands type in _Jasper Hale_.

A handful of different profiles pop up, and I scroll past them. I am a little crestfallen when none of them appear to be _my_ Jasper... or, rather, the Jasper I know, I correct myself. However, after bypassing several unfamiliar photos, I finally find one without a picture, just the default avatar.

_Jasper Hale. Forks, Washington._

I try to curb the strange excitement I feel at seeing his page, and click on it. However, my excitement soon dwindles when I see there is very little shared on his page. It is private, but extremely scarce even for a private profile. No photos, no cover photo, and only three friends added- I recognise his twin sister, and the two other girls named Kate and Irina Denali, who look as though they are his cousins- they bear a striking resemblance to him and Rosalie.

This is odd, that he has no actual friends on his page. Yes, he is rather withdrawn, but surely there must have been someone who he sat with in Texas? Without even hesitating, I make a small series of clicks, and a friend request is sent to Mr Jasper Hale.

* * *

_**Jasper**_

* * *

Sometimes, I actually wish teachers would give us more homework. Homework is good, it is a constant amd numbing thing, a distraction. I never used to enjoy homework, but now I do- I like it because while I am working I am absorbed in it, and I do not think about other things.

But since it is our first day at the new school the teachers, by some almost cruel kindness, decided to "spare" us from much homework. So after less than an hour and a half my evening is free, and am sat at my desk alone, not sure what to do. A long time ago, in another life, I would have enjoyed the spare time.

But that isn't me any more. It hasn't been in a while.

I wonder if I should sketch. Then I toss that idea aside. Dad is home- I can hear his raised voice downstairs. Again. It sounds as though he has stopped off at his favourite place home from work (a bar) and I know that when he is in one of these moods then he could burst into my room any second. And if he sees me sketching... I shudder at the thought, torn scraps of paper flitting around in my mind's eye. So I sit, and I stare at the wall, wondering what to make of this time. Finally, I waste time with meaningless tasks.

Email. _Check inbox_. A handful of newsletters I have subscribed to, and nothing more. Not that I expected anything from anyone. Not even Maria...

I shake my head. No Maria. Not tonight.

Youtube. _Check subscriptions_. An art channel I once loved has uploaded videos with new tutorials on certain brushes and pencils.

The part of me that is still able to want, wants to watch them.

So I don't.

Facebook. _Check notifications_. Nothing has happened, so I-

Wait. A small red bubble appears, and I frown. A friend request. Probably, I think dully, from someone who collects random friends they don't know. I am about to decline it when a picture and name crop up on the side, a girl with huge green eyes and wild black hair swirling around her face. A face that the artistic part of my mind appreciates, because it is reminiscent of the old portraits and dramatic, someone I wish I would be able to sketch.

_You have one new friend request from: **Alice Cullen.**_

Alice. It always seems to be Alice. She has been nothing but nice to me these past two days, for some inexplicable reason. Nice when she met me at the grocery store, nice when she saw me at school, telling me my art was good. And now she even has sought me out on Facebook.

I want to accept it. But...

_Ignore request?_

My finger hovers over the button for a few moments. I should just decline her friend request and ignore her but I don't actually want to. She was kind to me and it seems just plain rude to do this. But accepting it would mean calling her my friend and I don't know if I can do that.

So I just stare at the request, then leave it.

I sit alone in my chair, looking at the computer screen long after it turns black. My mind wants to swirl with thought and confusion but I try to push them out and feel numb, thinking of nothing. I try nt to listen to the sounds of shouting in my father's loud voice or my mother's sobs from downstairs.

But I listen anyway.

* * *

At eleven thirty I hear the shower turn on. I have been lying in my bed and trying to sleep, but instantly I am alerted. It is Rosalie- I can already sense it, and though I know I should leave her be since last night she was angry when I interrupted her I find myself opening the door just a little to listen. The shower stops prematurely again, and then I hear her footsteps thud across the landing. I frown slightly; it doesn't sound like she is going to her bedroom.

The footsteps go down the stairs.

The front door opens.

Rosalie is going out. At nearly midnight.

Why?

I push my door open further and tread quietly across the landing, hoping she doesn't see me as I peer over the banister. The front door shuts, and Rosalie is gone. Where, I don't know. Why, I don't know. I barely know my own sister anymore.

* * *

**Yeah, I haven't updated this in almost a year. I'm sorry! I've just been really sidetracked and other projects have and this just hasn't crossed my mind. If anyone is still reading this, I hope you liked this!**


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